


Hamunaptra

by Truth



Category: The Mummy Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-26
Updated: 2006-08-26
Packaged: 2017-10-14 06:37:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/146434
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truth/pseuds/Truth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some rituals are no more than common sense.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hamunaptra

The Med-jai spent their lives in service; silent guardians bound by thousands of years of tradition and ritual. They watched, they waited, they guarded… but most of all, they served.

Pharaohs came and went, their empires spreading outward only to recede again. Christianity came and hung like a thin haze of pollution over the ancient ways and monuments, never enough to truly erode what had come before, but leaving a thin, greasy patina over all.

Still, the Med-jai maintained their silent guard.

It wasn’t difficult to **be** a Med-jai, although it was not something you could choose to pursue. It wasn’t something you could become. You were born to it, had to be born to it, needed the call of it in your blood. The stories you were whispered in your cradle, to the sound of the Nile waters or the sound of the wind on sand, were always the same.

 _”Once there was a great Pharaoh, **our** Pharaoh… and he was betrayed.”_

You learned the names, including the one which was never to be spoken. You learned when to speak and when to be silent. You learned the secret ways, even if you never walked them, even if you served in the crowded cities and would never see the hidden places or bear the inked marks of the warrior. You learned how to divert the curious, how to lie with a smile and how to kill in order to protect.

This was true for every member, every man, woman and child. The Med-jai were everywhere and they had worked for thousands of years to fulfill their duties. Every Med-jai served, every Med-jai watched, every Med-jai protected…

… some more directly than others.

The nomads were different, not simply because they lived in the desert. They lived in the shadow of their charge, within the strange aura of the hidden city and its rotting secret, but never close enough to be drawn inside. Not without the call of duty.

Hamunaptra was a cursed place and none knew that better than they. They wore the black of its shadow against their flesh, saw it color the coats of their steeds, bore its marks beneath their skin… they knew what they guarded and their vigilance was unfading.

None of this was of any comfort to Ardeth Bey.

This was the fourth time their company had ridden to the outskirts of the cursed city. For the third morning in a row there was nothing within the ruined walls but silence, the sound of the wind blowing sand against stone….

When they rode away, this time it was Ardeth that they left behind.

In the morning, they would ride again, come to see if they would be leaving a fifth man behind or if a living man would walk out of the city of the dead to ride as their leader.

It was an old tradition, almost as old as the Med-jai. When the time came to choose a new leader, appropriate candidates were selected and left, one at a time, to walk the streets of Hamunaptra. They were left with only the clothes on their back, a good supply of water and their weapons. Nine out of ten were never seen again.

It was an honor to be chosen, especially so for Ardeth. The other men were well into their thirties and forties, tested men, proven leaders. Ardeth was good… but he was young. He hadn’t led anyone anywhere, beyond a single patrol or two. Somehow, he had been judged worthy.

It was an honor he could have foregone.

His comrades rode away swiftly, but he didn’t watch them go. As the muffled thud of hoofbeats on sand began to fade, he was already moving through the ruined and sand-choked streets. All the Med-jai knew Hamunaptra as if it were still a living city and this street would lead him directly to the Avenue of the Gods, the only place in the entire city which might hold some protection from the horror that lurked beneath the sand.

Ardeth was no coward, but he did have a healthy respect for the thing that waited beneath Hamunaptra’s ruins. It knew no fear, it cared not for the passing centuries, it had no aversion to sunlight and it never slept. The one whose name they did not speak was imprisoned here, yes, and his body slept. His mind, however, was awake and aware. The city had been meant to serve as his prison but over the years it had become an extension of the will it had been meant to contain.

The traitor’s gaze could be felt whenever the Med-jai passed the border of the city and with it his undying hatred. There was no chance of the Med-jai ever relaxing their guard so long as he remained imprisoned, even if the world itself came to dust around them. He hated them more than any still living and, if that were a dubious honour, it meant that they had been true to their duty.

Ardeth’s heavy black clothing made an audible sound when he moved, even as the drifting sand kept his footsteps from echoing as he moved between the ruined piles of stone. He knew each building as if he’d been there at their construction, could see in his mind’s eye the former glory of this, _their_ city, as much as it was the traitor’s, and this was the first time he had been here on foot – the first time alone.

It was impossible not to stop and close his eyes, calling up the image of the fountain that had once graced this plaza, his mind’s eye replacing the worn lumps of stone with tall statues and drifted sand with delicately colored paving stones. The City of the Dead had not been a grim, haunted place then but a city meant to echo the most beautiful walks and sights of life… and he could almost hear the water falling….

Dark eyes snapped open as he whirled, squinting against the glare of morning sun on the sand. He _had_ heard water and that hadn’t been all. The pad of bare feet against stone and the faint drag of cloth…. For a moment, his imagination held the long street open before him, huge braziers lit and sending light up to a night sky between the long lines of carven guards as a star fell far above.

Reality was crumbled walls and worn chunks of stone, any carving and paint long since worn away by blown sand, the braziers a thing of distant, shared memory and Ardeth let out a reluctant sigh of regret. The Med-jai were the guardians of this place; its past, present and future and every year there was less here to see, more to remember. Were he a traditionalist, he would have begun by walking the ancient route of the captain, stopping at each point of inspection.

Ardeth was a great believer in formality, in remembrance and symbolism. He was also a realist. There was a time and place to venerate those dead and gone and he intended to show his own respect for the teachings of those who had come before by living to honour them through continued service. He had chosen his route into Hamunaptra carefully. He had almost half a mile to go before he reached the street where he planned to spend the night. Tempting as it might be to wander the city that lived only in memory, he wanted whatever meager protection he might find in this cursed place and beneath the statues of the gods was the best place to seek it.

The desert is rarely silent, although few things move in the high heat of midday. Hamunaptra, however, was a dead place. No bird or insect came here, no animal that crept or slithered, bathed in the heat of the sand or rested in the marginally cooler doorways. The faint echo of Ardeth’s own movement was his only companion as he moved, lips speaking silent prayers to gods who had been silent here since the curse. The Med-jai were not atheists, but most had fallen prey to more modern beliefs – if only to blend more easily with those they protected.

Lip service was a bad habit to fall into, although Ardeth was as guilty of it as the rest. False words weakened true belief and he knew it. Ardeth believed in the curse and in the monster they guarded, believed in the magic that bound it and in the gods who had been invoked to weave the pain that kept the traitor from truly sleeping. It was only here that he allowed himself to speak their names, however, prayers in a place that belonged to an evil already moving somewhere beneath his feet and in the air around him.

The others; older, with a greater deference to tradition and those who came before, would have begun by walking the gates and watch towers. Ardeth was already well into the city, moving even faster now. He’d been in Hamunaptra for two hours, on foot since dawn. The sun was directly overhead, however, his shadow directly beneath him as he moved. Time flowed strangely in the ruined streets, but it was slipping past far faster than Ardeth had been prepared for. The thought that at least the night would pass quickly came and went with a grim quirk of his lips.

The monster wasn’t bound by the rise or fall of the sun and there was a good chance that Ardeth would not live to see sundown, much less the dawn.

Pausing in a doorway for a long swallow of water, Ardeth pulled the cloth from his face and closed his eyes again. Here there had been a small resting place – a stopping point for those coming and going to the great temple. There had been delicately painted frescoes on the walls and ceiling and a pool in the tiny courtyard…. Footsteps again and this time Ardeth did not open his eyes, stepping backward into the room and unsurprised when his booted heel did not meet the slight shift of sand but instead came down onto stone.

Automatically, the water skin was stoppered and hung again from his belt as he continued to move. Another archway to his left, a place his mind insisted had huge stone blocks fallen across it, but he did not hesitate, even as the heavy smell of the delicate flowers in the pool rose to fill his mouth and nose. There was movement in the air, a breeze that carried none of the harsh sand which should be flavoring every breath but instead the faintest tang of smoke and incense.

There were no blocks to bar his way, half-buried in sand and left to the ages. He could no longer hear footsteps, but he continued to move anyway, hand finding the hilt of his sword as he moved backward along the narrow alley to the next street. Hoofbeats sounded, somewhere to his left and, beyond that, the shout of a guard – met and recognized.

Ardeth took a slow breath, feeling the cool of the shaded alley and the moisture of wasted water hanging in the air. Ten paces forward would take him back to the street, fifteen or so backward would take him to another plaza, one with an egress to the avenue of the gods – the place where he’d wanted to be. He was suddenly not so sure of the wisdom of his chosen course of action. With a soft sigh of regret, he opened his eyes.

Evening was coming quickly, the thin strip of sky contained by the high walls on either side already stained with red and purple… and beneath his feet were paving stones. Glancing to the end of the alley he could see the flickering shadows which said the giant braziers had already been lit. This time, the past did not fade and Ardeth could feel his muscles tightening.

‘Run,’ something inside whispered. ‘If you run now it might be morning by the time you reach the walls. If you’re not outside by morning they’ll leave another man and you’ll never escape.’

It didn’t work like that. Whatever other uncertainties might plague him, Ardeth was more or less certain of that much. The commanders never spoke of the night they spent in Hamunaptra, but if it involved a race against time he had already lost. Besides, if fleetness of foot were all that it took to survive a night here, there would be more survivors. Last night’s candidate had been far faster than Ardeth on that score, even if he had been a decade older.

Taking a careful breath and consciously relaxing, Ardeth turned and continued down the alley. He had chosen the place where he would spend the night and there was no reason that he could think of to alter his plans now. The dead silence of Hamunaptra’s sand-choked streets had faded to be replaced by the whisper of flowing water and the crackle of the braziers as well as the occasional, far-off call of recognition and watch passed by the guards.

He was out of place here, his dark clothing, soft boots and even his weapon the relics of another place. The silent prayers still falling from his lips at carefully spaced intervals were spoken in a language that the gods might recognize but had shifted far, far from that originally spoken by their subjects, despite the attempts of the Med-jai to keep it pure. The only thing that linked him to this fantasy of the past was the ink beneath his skin and Ardeth could _feel_ it like a living thing, another stain of the monster that was waiting for him.

It clawed slowly at the bone, corruption of something that should have remained pure and he could feel the taint sinking down and _through_ as he moved, finally stepping beneath the shadowed figures of his gods and knowing that they would not hear him. Ardeth Bey was truly alone now and he stared up at the distant, carven faces and wondered if this is what had happened to the others, dying at the feet of their gods, in the service of their pharaoh, silent and forgotten as the city which became their grave.

The thought chilled him to the bone, warring with the almost feverish heat of the darkness beneath his skin and Ardeth shuddered. Taking a deep breath, he set his shoulders and turned away. Now that he had reached his destination, time seemed to have slowed to something approaching normal, as the sun was still in the process of setting. The growing darkness was fought somewhat unsuccessfully by the huge dishes of fire set along the avenue and to a smaller extent by the smaller braziers before the statue of each god. Aside from the almost silent burning of the oil-fed flames, the city had again fallen into silence and Ardeth wondered what it was waiting for.

There was no moon in the rapidly darkening sky, although there seemed little need for one and Ardeth thought there was significance there if he could only puzzle it out. He was not given the time, however. There was no warning of footsteps this time or sound of fabric to give him time to gather himself.

They never spoke the traitor’s name, never described he who had been cursed. The tall man before him, however, could be no one else. He bore no visible trappings of power, no elaborate wig or painted skin, for all that his scant clothing was of rich fabric… but the power that wrapped around him was tangible, dark fingers working their way even further beneath Ardeth’s skin.

“An interesting choice.”

There was power in his voice as well, despite the conversational tone. Ardeth wondered whether it was his choice as candidate or his own choice of venues which was being referred to before deciding that it didn’t matter. This was not what he had expected… and now he knew what so few of his comrades returned from this night, although not how or why those who did managed to survive.

One hand on the hilt of his sword, for all the good it would do him, Ardeth asked, “Do you greet all the candidates in this fashion?” His own words lacked the clarity and bite of the monster… a language learned by rote and spoken rarely outside of prayer and ritual commands.

“Not all of them.” He smiled, a pleasant flash of teeth that didn’t actually hold any humor. “Most lose themselves in the past before the second guard post.” The monster strode slowly forward and Ardeth had to force himself not to take a step back. That earned him a second smile, this one perhaps slightly more genuine. “What has brought you to me, _Med-jai_?”

The title was a slur against the monster’s tongue, edged with a very gentle malice that could have been mistaken for respect were Ardeth not close enough to see the look in his eyes. “It seemed the… best place.”

Dark eyes narrowed and Ardeth couldn’t quite catch the words that followed; something about bad habits. He wasn’t going to ask the monster to repeat itself, however. After a moment, the creature spoke again. “So you have walked the Avenue of the Gods and faced the monster in his lair… what have you learned, _Med-jai_?”

There was a long moment of silence as Ardeth sought an answer. He’d learned that the monster was indeed awake ad that there must be some connection between the selection of the leader of the Med-jai and the monster – or at least between the monster and the survivors.

“You have learned nothing.” The monster was suddenly, frighteningly close, the look in his eyes one of bitter contempt. “Have you no idea why you are here?”

“I am here….”

 _Too late… too_ late!

Ardeth blinked hard, looking up for a moment to see a familiar young woman screaming a warning before she faded away.

“You are here?” the monster prompted, suddenly looking upon him with a great deal more interest.

“I am here to be certain that you pay for your crime.” The words came far more naturally, not a rote phrase or something cobbled together from painstaking lessons, and they were delivered with a snarl of almost feral hate.

They were practically nose to nose, The monster in garb suited to a royal court now lost to time and the Med-jai warrior in his black, weather-beaten robes and the snarl worn by Ardeth was suddenly echoed by the monster as one hand shot out, aiming for his throat.

The blow did not connect, however. They stood there, frozen, staring at each other with the monster’s hand hovering only millimeters from Ardeth’s throat. “She chooses well,” the monster finally spat – but he did not withdraw his hand.

“She?”

The snarl faded into a slow, ugly smile – smug superiority almost radiating from him. “Hamunaptra. You did not think that _I_ drew you here, did you?”

To his shame, Ardeth did. He stared at the monster, disbelieving. “’She’?”

“You serve her, or her memory, and you did not know?” The hand was withdrawn as the monster stepped back. “Perhaps you were not so well-chosen. Time will tell….”

As Ardeth opened his mouth to ask exactly what the monster was referring to, there was a sudden gust of wind and surge of blowing sand. Throwing up one arm to shield his face, Ardeth spent several minutes with his eyes tightly closed as he attempted to breath clean air through the filter of his sleeve. As the stinging bite of wind-blown sand faded, he lowered his arm, cautiously opening his eyes to find himself again alone beneath the weathered and nearly unrecognizable figure of Anubis. Most of the other gods had lost their hands and heads, although he could still make out Ra at the far end of the street, the pale moonlight just enough for a positive identification, although it helped that he knew which god it was supposed to be.

There were several hours left before the dawn, judging by the placement of the stars. Time had suffered another hiccough apparently, and he would easily reach the outskirts of the dead city before the sun rose. Turning, he looked up at the weather-worn figures of the gods, wondering what had just happened here and what, if anything, had allowed him to live where the others had died.

No answer came and Ardeth was left to find his way back to the ancient gates alone through ruined streets choked with drifting sand with only the faint sound of the wind for company.


End file.
